


shadow image

by darkavenue



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen, Historical, India, Italy, Missing Scene, Vignette, the second date at the taj mahal is all me, trying oysters was canonically their first date
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 18:30:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19818061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenue/pseuds/darkavenue
Summary: You can’t blame Crowley for taking up Aziraphale’s offer. The first time since the dawn of creation that an angel offers to lead a demon into temptation, and he’s supposed to, what, say “nah?”





	1. Rome, 2996 BC

You can’t blame Crowley for taking up Aziraphale’s offer. The first time since the dawn of creation that an angel offers to lead a demon into temptation, and he’s supposed to, what, say “nah?”

Nah, he’s going to plop right down at the bar of Petronius’ new restaurant and let the angel order a half-dozen oysters.

“If you want more, we could get the full dozen.”

“The fu—I came to try _an_ oyster, what are you talking about a full dozen for?”

The angel laughs, a little condescending. “Oh, no, there’s three different kinds. You must try each at least once.”

“Now, that wasn’t in the fine print. How deceptive of you.”

“No, it’s _not._ I’m only presuming you’d be curious for all three. You can have the first with no strings attached and I will eat the rest if I must.”

“Oh, _if you must_ , how generous.”

“You’re welcome.” The way he says it, Crowley can’t tell if Aziraphale’s really good at dishing back as much as he gets or if he obliviously accepts that as a compliment.

The bartender sets an ornate platter between them. Crowley has seen plenty of humans gorging on oysters before, tilting them up to eager lips and wiping juice from their chin before dropping the shells with a clatter. Aesthetically, he approves of anything that looks a little dirty and lots of fun. This is the first time he gets a proper, up close look at a plate of the stuff, though. For the first time, he notices the iridescent watercolors that line the inner edges of each gorgeously dark, ruffled shell. He picks one up and tilts it to watch the way the sun plays on the bright inner shell. 

As he does, a tiny sprinkle of liquid pours out of the shell and soaks his robe.

“Mine just pissed on me.”

“It’s only saltwater. Some people think it tastes better without it,” Aziraphale tries to reassure him. Except that he can’t help adding, “They are wrong, though. Do you want to switch? You can’t muck up your very first oyster like this.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer taking the oyster from Crowley. Unfazed, Crowley picks up a new one more carefully. The meat at the center drifts gently in its shell with each movement of his hand.

“You really like this goo?”

“It isn’t _goo_ , it’s a living thing and it is beautiful.”

“A living—It’s _alive_? Right _now?”_

“Well…” Aziraphale’s gaze floats to the ceiling for a second, clearly searching for a way to skirt around or soften the answer. He winds up just going with, “Yes.”

“That’s barbaric, isn’t it?”

“There is nothing uncivilized about eating raw food. You could argue that it’s purer, actually.”

“You eat these things whole—guts, excrements, and all—while they are _still alive_ , and you kill it with your own teeth—”

“Don’t chew it that much! Just a little bit, very gently.”

“Oh, so it’s probably still alive when it starts being digested? That’s even _worse_. There are so many layers of abjection to this. Who was the first weirdo to try this slime and then decide to market it as food? I like their style.”

Somewhere in the world, Famine smiles.

In the seat next to Crowley, Aziraphale’s looking exasperated. “You are a snake, how can you possibly be disturbed by that?”

“No, no, I love being disturbed, I wanna try it even more now. Nothing says, _hell yeah, I’m a demon,_ like devouring raw, living flesh.”

“You’ll make _me_ lose my appetite, talking like that at the table.”

“You already knew it’s sort of nasty. You had to be shocked that someone even thought to do it.”

“I find a degree of admiration that someone thought to do it. It is because of such fearless curiosity that mankind has discovered so many of nature’s secrets,” Aziraphale valiantly insists.

“Some secrets are horrible.”

“You don’t know whether they will be horrible or wonderful before you’ve uncovered them yourself.”

A secret neither Aziraphale nor Crowley knows is that, later, oysters will be called _fruits de mer—_ the ocean’s fruit. Perhaps the fruit of the sea can bring knowledge as the fruit of Eden once did. Whether he likes it or not, Crowley is in the company of an angel he feels treacherously compelled to be accepted by. He doesn’t care for food, never has, but there is so much Crowley wants to prove that is pointless to prove at this point. He can settle for proving that he makes enjoyable company. 


	2. Agra, 1659

Locked in a tower, a fallen king gazes through the bars of his exquisite prison. No other captive would have the luxury of being held at the top of a marble palace, surrounded by a sprawling view of the capital city. Sometimes, he is allowed to sit on the veranda for fresh air. His daughter comes to see him most days, which helps with the loneliness. Most evenings, the family tutor is allowed to visit. He brings Shah Jahan new books to read. They discuss the Quran and pray together.

The fallen king always liked Aziraphale. He’d been there before the death of the queen and he’d stuck with Shah Jahan after, always reassuring. Even when the world doubted his sanity for dedicating his life to what seemed like a wasteful pipe dream that would come at a colossal price, Aziraphale understood and encouraged. Perhaps, a little too much.

“A clear view of her tomb from my prison, all day and all night.” Shah Jahan frowns at the Taj Mahal gleaming beneath the moonlight. “As far as torture goes, at least the pain is sweet.”

Aziraphale finishes slipping the last of the books he brought through a gap in the bars. “I’ve invited someone to come see it, actually. I’m afraid that’s why I cannot stay tonight.”

The fallen king is unperturbed. “Tell your friend about the lost dream.”

Reluctantly, Aziraphale nods. “Not a friend, but I’ll do that.”

At the correction, Shah Jahan gives a wistful smile, which means he has now misinterpreted what Aziraphale meant even more deeply than at first.

He waits on the edge of the bazaar that night, expecting that he will be the one spotted first. Aziraphale’s appearance doesn’t change much over time, but he is never sure what to look for when it comes to a certain demon.

“Hey, a guard just told me it’s closed at night,” a familiar voice complains at Aziraphale’s side.

He _did_ predict that Crowley would be draped in black, but the veil is a surprise. It’s of the same material as the dark, diaphanous sari Crowley wears across a full sleeved, black velvet top.

“Well, hello. It’s alright, they know I’m working with the royal family.”

“Oh, you’re fancy.”

On their stroll to the great gate, Aziraphale fills Crowley in on the past decade’s local gossip. The king and queen’s epic love, most unusual for a political marriage.

“That’s what brought you here, is it?”

“Oh, no. It took me quite by surprise. It is the reason I stayed, I admit. There’s something remarkable here.”

“There was. And now we’re standing at the gates to her tomb.” Crowley tilts his head back to get a good look at the great gate, a massive red monument that blocks the view of the Taj Mahal behind it.

An inscription in the marble catches his eye.

“ _O soul, thou art at rest. Return to the Lord at peace with Him, and He at peace with you,”_ he reads aloud, then turns to Aziraphale with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. “You sure I’m allowed in here, then?”

“It’s somewhat an artistic statement. This gate is supposed to represent a transition from the material world,” Aziraphale vaguely waves a hand in the direction of the bazaar outside, “to the afterlife.”

There’s an interesting little optical illusion that he pauses to point out to Crowley. The first view of the resplendent Taj Mahal is framed by elegant arch of the main gate. Standing in the shadows of the gate, the moon-white monument looks like a picture perfectly framed in black. As they step closer, the Taj seems to grow smaller. Even Crowley, who isn’t typically fazed by tricks, finds himself walking back to the entrance to do a double take. It seems to grow bigger as he walks backwards, away from the Taj.

“ _How_ are you doing this?”

“It isn’t me!” Aziraphale gleefully insists. “I pitched in some ideas—call it divine inspiration—but they’re so brilliant here, they figured out how to make it real all on their own.”

Crowley walks through the gate again, taking the illusion in once more. “It is a little brilliant, I’ll give ‘em that. Like a human miracle.”

“And you’re only at the entrance. Just wait.” Aziraphale barely restrains himself from skipping as he leads the way through the lush garden beyond the gate.

He chatters on about how the garden is a representation of Jannah and the water channels along the two paths symbolise the four rivers that flow through it.

“Doesn’t look anything like it, but I suppose it’s a rough interpretation.”

“It’s a _symbol_ , Crowley.”

“I’m not hating. I like this better, even.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

More up close to the Taj now, Aziraphale can see Crowley becoming spellbound. Beneath the veil, his eyes drink up the synthesis of grace and scale as if it could quench his soul. It is a masterpiece of a kind this world hasn’t seen before. Aziraphale shows him the splendid interior, all the way into the inner sanctum that holds the queen’s final resting place. He explains how everything from the foundation to the dome is a feat of engineering. He shares the other illusions he knows the building holds and finds that _this_ magic on a monumental scope is actually quite fascinating to Crowley.

Then, the pair row a boat to the moonlight garden across the river, designed for a perfect view of the full structure. The full moon shines above, the breeze is balmy all around, and the water laps quietly at the riverbank beneath the garden. The Taj Mahal looms directly across from them, a tangible love song that invites anyone in the world to physically walk through its verses.

“I like this,” Crowley admits. “Hamlet exceeded expectations, too.”

“Oh, you liked it?” Aziraphale attempts to sound pleasantly surprised, but it comes off as pleasantly smug.

“Yeah, yeah. So, what did you need here? Consider me sold.” He turns his attention to Aziraphale, ready to talk business.

They normally get that out of the way before the fun stuff, but Crowley has no complaints about the change of pace.

Aziraphale’s mouth flaps silently a couple of times before his tongue starts fumbling a response. “Er—I—Well, it’s… Nothing.”

“Oh, spit it out.”

“I don’t need a favor.”

“Sure, you don’t. You told me to come all this way for what? Just to hang out?”

“What’s that tone for?” Offended, Aziraphale splays a hand over his own chest. “We’ve _‘just hung out’_ before.”

“Yeah, when we bump into each other.” Crowley throws his hands up only to let them fall back at his side, in an impatient gesture that clinks the silver bangles around his wrists. “I was on a different continent, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale takes a deep inhale. Crowley waits for a sigh that never comes. He just holds it in.

“You miss me?” Crowley prods, eyes gleaming behind the veil.

He looks away. “I asked you to come here because I wanted to know if it was just me.”

“Just you what?”

“This place… The humans poured their hearts and souls into making an earthly representation of heaven. But the thing is—I never saw anything this sublime in heaven. Not even close.” He gazes up and down the radiant marble mausoleum on the opposite bank. “This isn’t made of the cosmos, or the divine. It’s only stone on stone. And it _beats_ heaven.”

Such things, he could never say aloud to the devout king that he prays with. He could never admit to his own kind. He has nothing to lose from sharing it with Crowley.

“It isn’t just you,” Crowley concedes with ease. “They didn’t snap their fingers and miracle it into existence. And still, they made a wonder. That’s pretty amazing. How many people worked on this, and for how long?”

“Too many for too long,” Aziraphale mumbles, casting his eyes down. “Shah Jahan became obsessed. He practically ran the empire into the ground to build it.”

“Classic aftermath of hubris.”

“I think I caused it. I pushed it too far, Crowley.” Aziraphale chews his lip, face wracked with guilt.

Helplessly confessing mistakes to this demon has somehow become a troubling habit. It would be easier to break if Crowley didn’t choose these moments to suddenly become a patient listener.

“I was so set on this idea of this… of an ageless message of pure love, unaffected by time or war—or by the rise and fall of empires. I… I kept suggesting more. It spiralled out of hand and _so many_ people suffered for the emperor’s devotion.”

“But, Aziraphale, I saw you in there. You love it. You’re brimming with delight in there.”

“I can’t help it,” his voice comes dangerously close to being described as a whine, “Ever since its completion, it has this—this _effect_. I’ve never felt anything like it. It’s so enveloping, so enormous, that I can feel it from here. I can feel it in the streets. Even in the farthest corners of the city, I’m unsuspectingly pricked by traces of it.”

“What is ‘it?’”

“Oh. It’s love.”

Crowley furrows his brow, not sensing any of what’s obvious to the angel. “The old emperor’s love?”

“No, _everyone’s_ love. The people who come here each day and see this, they leave with the notion of love in their hearts. So much of it that it pours a trail wherever they go. And it is _so_ concentrated, right here.”

“Job well done for you, then. Jot that on your report and they’ll eat it up.”

“Of course, they will. I just—The dark side is still there, even if I don’t tell anyone.”

“You told me. Blame it on me, over here trying to spoil a good thing.”

“Shah Jahan has the best intentions. I mean, he was named king of the world and he wants his legacy to be his great love. All this, and he never even had the chance to complete his life’s work,” Aziraphale laments. “He was deposed and imprisoned by his own family, to save the empire from the extravagance of his grief.”

“He never—You mean this isn’t done?” Crowley blinks incredulously across the river, unable to fathom what could possibly be missing from the Taj.

Aziraphale shake’s his head. “Everything in its design is symmetrical. This garden, where we’re standing… This is where he planned to build another identical mausoleum, hewn from black marble, where he would be entombed directly across from his love. The black Taj would be a mirror image of the white Taj, down to the very last speck.”

“Ah.” Crowley gives a curt nod the moment the understanding hits. “If he brought the empire to the edge of ruin to finish the white one, I see how that idea could be the last straw for his family.”

Aziraphale nods back solemnly. “They aren’t wrong. Now, I wonder where he would be if I’d never suggested it.”

“ _I_ still think it was a good idea,” Crowley says with a shrug.

For a wordless minute, they gaze at the flawless, glowing Taj on the opposite bank. Alone.

Crowley’s the one to break the silence. “I could make a Black Taj.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Aziraphale clicks his tongue. “That’s an enormous miracle. You couldn’t explain yourself when they question what it’s for.”

“Nah, it’s not.” Crowley brings his hand up to his forehead, then slowly down.

It looks as though he is beginning to do the sign of the cross, except that his hand never moves to either side. It continues down in a straight line.

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale looks over his shoulder, fearfully expecting to see a black monument rising.

“Other way, angel.”

Aziraphale’s face whips around to the white Taj, thankfully unchanged across the river. The full moon above it is sinking low, real low, and _impossibly_ fast. Crowley pulls the moon down across the sky until it dips behind the Taj Mahal, framing the immaculate marble in its glow.

“Do you see it?” he asks.

At first, Aziraphale doesn’t see anything at all. Not until he looks at Crowley’s face and sees that his golden eyes are pointed downwards. Aziraphale follows his line of sight to the river running beneath them. He sees the Taj Mahal’s reflection in the wine-dark waters of the Yamuna, and his lips part in awe. The halo of moonlight around it creates a wavy shadow image of a black Taj Mahal.

Aziraphale turns his gaze to the fort in the distance, where he knows the fallen king spends his nights gazing at the Taj from his tower, and hopes that he is witnessing this miracle. 

“It’s even better than we could’ve imagined,” he tells Crowley. “It’s magical.”

Crowley hums, making an effort not to look too pleased with Aziraphale’s delight. “I don’t move celestial bodies for anyone, you know.”


End file.
